Aitutaki

We were welcomed at Aitutaki airport by the manageress of Paradise Cove, who adorned each of us with a necklace of flowers from the garden, and drove us to the resort in an ancient van held together with string and rust. Our bungalow is built out over a deserted white coral beach. The swimming in the lagoon is good, with plenty of depth. We were convinced that we had finally found Paradise.

And then the local mosquitoes found us. 

They are the most vicious animals we have ever encountered. Pure world-class evil. We have been burning coils all day and all night, we have used up two bottles of insect repellent in a week, and we have still been bitten half to death. Mosquitoes have never been part of our picture of Paradise.

We have spent seven days here. Too long for Michèle, who finds Paradise a bit boring, and would prefer a spot of Purgatory for a change. Peter enjoys the relaxed island lifestyle, and would be happy to stay here forever. He has gone native (see the picture). The only drawback for Peter has been his broken rib, which means he has been in pain, and has not been able to do any diving.

Aitutaki is a small island, about 8 km by 2 km, We rented a scooter to get around, since there is no public transport. However, we were warned that there is no petrol left on the island. Aitutaki is supplied by a ship from New Zealand once a month, and we are right at the end of the month. But we managed to find just enough petrol to keep us going (slowly, to Michèle’s relief). Many other everyday items are out of stock or in short supply, and restaurant menus are getting shorter by the day. We have been warned that if the boat does not come in soon, we’ll have to resort to the time-honoured practice of cannibalism.

On Sunday we went to church. It’s the oldest church in the Cook Islands, dating from 1828. The service was well attended, and conducted in a welcome atmosphere of informality, with babies being handed around amongst the congregation. Children moved around and went to sleep on the front pews. The service was mostly in Maori, with a welcome for visitors in English. Guests of honour were an under-18 rugby team visiting from St Kentigern’s College in Auckland, who went on to win the international test series 3-0 against local Aitutaki boys. The service was very long, and included some very fine hymns, chanted beautifully in four-part harmony by the congregation. It reminded us of Polyphonies Corses. There were two larger-than-life preachers keeping us all in order: not to be messed with. After the service all the visitors were invited into the parish hall for lunch and pineapple juice. Yum Yum! The hospitality of Cook Islanders knows no bounds; sharing is all part of their lives.

A highlight of our stay here was a boat tour around the lagoon, very well organised by Puna and his family, who really knew how to look after us. The immense shallow lagoon contains clear turquoise water with coral heads just below the surface, miles of white sandy beaches, and a ring of motu (islets) around the outer reef. The snorkelling and swimming in the lagoon were fantastic, with all the usual coral reef fish in abundance, and giant clams everywhere.

Two of the motu are used for the reality TV show Shipwrecked, and its American counterpart Survivor. Puna explained to us how the production companies take over Aitutaki lock stock and barrel for a period of three months per series. Tourism is banned, and all the island’s resources are commandeered for the show. Everything is paid for abundantly, and the income is now an important part of the local economy. We landed on Moturakau (Sharks in Shipwrecked), and passed close to Rapota (Tigers).

A memorable day in a magical South Seas location. We both came home with noses shining brightly. To Peter’s delight, Michèle has at long last (almost) mastered the use of the mask and snorkel.

The South Pacific has not been the most active phase of our trip. We have been content to live on Island Time and watch the world go by under the shade of a coconut tree. Strenuous and stressful activity is not part of the Island way of life, and about the only hazard here is being hit on the head by a falling coconut.

Now it’s off to the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles and San Francisco. The culture shock might just be too much for Peter, who has every intention of testing the Special Relationship to its limits with his long hair and flowery shirt. He has brushed up on his rendering of the well-known hippy song, to be sung to the dour and forbidding immigration officials:

If you’re going to San Francisco,
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

Anyone got a ukulele?